


Lead Me Not

by equipoise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Blasphemy, F/M, Priest Kink, Smut, creepyship, let's do this, mild dubcon, who's coming to hell with me?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-07-27 04:04:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7602703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/equipoise/pseuds/equipoise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>“You fear yourself, Sansa?” he murmured, his voice pitched low and eyes never leaving hers. “Do you fear what you may do to a man, even a holy one such as myself?” He leaned closer, whispering against her ear, “How a man might wish to feast on you, more delectable on his tongue than any nectar… to give and take that forbidden pleasure, bodies joined in earthly ecstasy. How a man might long to move inside you and steal your breath with lingering kisses, fill your prayers with only his name?”</em>
</p><p>
Priest!Petyr and Novice!Sansa </p><p>
Now with cover art!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Call Me Petyr

                                                                   

  
Father Petyr smoothed a hand down his cassock. There was a single, stubborn wrinkle in the otherwise pristine linen. He frowned at it. He'd have to ask one of the novices to iron it again. His frown slowly curved into a grin. Of course, he knew exactly whom to ask.

Sansa.

She was always so very eager to please, her blue eyes downcast, posture obedient. She might even welcome the extra busy work. He'd found her wandering the grounds or reading in the library more than once when she ought to have been at her chores. Too much on her mind since the day she came to his parish. Understandable, but no excuse for neglecting the rules.

He always chided her gently, telling her it was lucky he’d been the one to see her. The Mother Superior was strict in her punishments, while Father Petyr could afford to be lenient. Especially to his Sansa. Her gratitude earned him liberties that he did not hesitate to take in their few private moments. A hug that lingered a little too long, the press of her breasts to his scarred chest. A kiss aimed artfully to the corner of her mouth on the pretense of missing her cheek.

Never further than propriety would allow, but enough to fuel his imagination in the weeks to come.

Orphaned by circumstance and family politics, Sansa Stark had come their church nearly as a last resort. Her family name meant almost nothing now, but there was a time those lily white hands had never seen a callous or blemish. He had convinced the Sisters of St. Julian had taken her on, despite the infamy that followed her at the time. That was a year ago now. Whole new scandals had been birthed and laid to rest among the upper crust. The Starks had been forgotten and their remaining heir was now a young woman grown. Indoctrinated into St. Julian’s simple, hard-working ways, Sansa had elected to stay on and become a novice.

Petyr had been more than eager to counsel her on that decision, not denying the wish to keep her within arm’s reach. He purported fatherly affection for her, the very picture of a humble shepherd with his favorite lost lamb.

Though no one else knew it at the parish, the truth was that Sansa had come to St. Julian initially to seek him out. She knew him only as a childhood acquaintance of her mother but with the position he held, she assumed him to be trustworthy.

She had arrived one evening, full secrets and grief, spilling her tale in the rectory between halting breaths. After so long a separation from his childhood love, he'd have thought his heart hardened. Surely, no other woman had truly stirred him in all the time since he’d left the seminary. His single minded focus has been to gain the power and authority denied him through the accident of a low birth. On track to become Cardinal some day, he now mingled freely with the most well respected and envied of society. He gave them counsel and bided his time, keeping full accounts of every sin they confessed.

One never knew what might be useful, down the road.

Sansa had been altogether unexpected, claiming sanctuary at his doorstep. Feeling that unfamiliar tug at his heart, the twist in his lower belly, after so many years took him almost entirely by surprise.

Petyr, raised as something of a younger brother in the Tully residence, had been hopelessly infatuated with Sansa's mother. He’d loved Catelyn Tully as only a child could love, deeply and selfishly, without the restraint of decorum. He’d ignored his lowly place in the world and sought her hand. It was the most foolish thing he’d ever done and a mistake he swore never to repeat. He still bore the scar that Cat’s suitor had given him for his efforts, a knife’s edge slicing the length of his dress shirt. It bled profusely at the time, though it was nothing more than a flesh wound. The deeper scars he wore within. Cat had shut him out of her life, rejected him from the family. He’d joined the seminary, after that, finding his own way to move up in their world.

He’d been shocked beyond words to see Cat’s eyes looking out from young Sansa’s tear-stained face. The Tully red hair ought to have given her away, but it was those eyes… oh, they sent a shiver through him even now. In his more idle moments, he imagined them fixed on his face as she knelt at his feet. He would gently stroke her red hair and coax her petal pink lips apart with his thumb…

The door to the chapel swung open and he shifted his stance to hide the evidence of his musings.

“Oh! Forgive me, Father. I did not realize anyone else was here.”

As though he had summoned her, the very girl who so occupied his thoughts appeared. Her pale cheeks flushed, a hand coming to her mouth.

“There is nothing to forgive, sweetling.” His smile was serpentine, a thrum of delight at having her alone with him heating his blood. “You must have risen early, indeed, to be up and about at this hour.” The sky was yet dark, moon just waning. 

Sansa looked toward her feet, clasping her hands before her. “In truth… I have not slept at all. I did try but my dreams are… troubled.” Her eyes met his, fragile and liquid in the flickering candlelight, almost too blue to be real.

Petyr felt the clench of desire at her guileless, trusting gaze. So aware of the world’s corruptions had he become that there were times he forgot such purity could still exist, still walk the same halls, breathing in the darkness all around her yet remaining oddly untouched. The girl had witnessed horrors, no doubt. Her father, mother, and older brother had been murdered before her very eyes. Her younger siblings had scattered to the winds, leaving little evidence as to their whereabouts. And the very family responsible for the destruction of hers had gone unpunished.

At least, initially.

The Lannisters were some of the oldest money in England but even they were not so untouchable as they appeared. A few months after the Stark massacre, the oldest son in the Lannister clan had died under mysterious circumstances. It had taken quite a great deal of maneuvering to accomplish so high profile a crime without leaving the slightest trace of himself. But Petyr was a careful, resourceful man. One with friends in many, many places and a position that held him nearly above reproach.

Joffrey’s death was never officially connected by authorities to the grisly murder of the Stark family, though it was heavily rumored that the two were inextricably linked.

Sansa had wept when she heard of it, shaking like a leaf in Petyr’s firm embrace. He’d asked her why she would weep for a monster. She’d turned her red rimmed eyes to him and whispered, “Because I feel what I should never feel in the face of another's death.”

“What is that?” he’d asked, half expecting the answer that followed.

She’d swallowed audibly, unable to meet his eye. “Relief. Happiness.” She’d searched his face for absolution, “I feel joy, Father. Joy that he will know eternal torment for his crimes on Earth. What does that make me?”

“Oh, my sweet girl,” he had murmured, pulling her closer still, pressing his lips to her brow. “Human. It makes you human.”

Petyr recalled this conversation fondly as he contemplated the girl who stood before him. She’d grown an inch taller in the time he’d known her, her head slightly above his own, now. More and more like her mother every day, only far lovelier than Cat had ever been. At this age, Cat had been handsome, strong willed and full of fire. Sansa was more delicate-featured than her mother. She moved with a grace and elegance all her own. The bearing of a queen, dethroned but far from stripped of her dignity. Even with the full bloom of her youth still unfurling, Petyr could not name a single woman of his acquaintance who might begin to match Sansa’s beauty.

He stepped closer to the girl, trailing a finger down her cheek. “What is it that troubles you so, my child?”

Sansa’s lips pressed together in a thin line. “It’s been a year, now. Exactly one year, today.”

A single tear tracked down her cheek and Petyr swiped it away with his thumb, resisting the urge to bring her flavor to his lips, suck the salt from that digit. Something, anything, to satiate the hunger she inspired in him. “I see,” he answered, attempting to sound grave. He moved the hand to cup her jaw, gently. “You miss them, of course.”

Sansa sniffed and nodded. “Every day, Father.”

“Petyr,” he corrected, drawing closer to wrap his other arm around her slim form.

“Petyr,” she parroted, her eyes locking on his.

One hand at her cheek, he ran the other soothingly up and down her spine, feeling the ridges distinctly beneath the thin fabric of her habit. He wondered briefly if she had not been eating well, either. He would have to see to it that she was given something delicious to suit her tastes. The food upon which the Sisters subsisted was far from appetizing, though their garden provided some fresh fruit and vegetables. Petyr, himself, kept a stash of sweets and finer victuals in a hidden larder. He pictured himself locating something savory to tempt Sansa’s palate, feeding it to her with his hand, bite by bite, her tongue curling over his fingers to chase the last crumb.

She was so close now, he could feel her breath on his face. “I haven’t anyone left in the world,” she whispered it like a secret.

“Nonsense,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to her mouth, transfixed by its soft fullness. “You have me, Sansa. You’ll always have me…” His thumb found her lower lip and trailed across it, just as in his daydream. She wasn’t on her knees for him, not yet, but there would be time for that. There would be time for a great many things, God willing. For now, he had her in his arms, a breath away from claiming her mouth at last.

Mindlessly, his hand at her back flexed, dipping lower down to grace the top curve of her backside. Sansa’s mouth fell open, a short, sharp breath escaping, yet she did not move to escape his embrace.

Petyr could be a patient man, but a year of coaxing her to him, of drying her tears and keeping her counsel, a year of yearning and dreaming and satisfying himself with nothing more than the brief touch of his lips to her cheek… it weighed on him. He hungered for so much more and he grew tired of denying himself. And now here she was in an empty chapel, allowing herself to be held and caressed like a lover. He leaned in slowly, with clear intent, his eyes half-lidded.

Her eyes went wide, body trembling against him. She made to pull away but he tightened his arm about her, splaying his fingers between her shoulderblades. He fancied he could feel her heartbeat racing against his palm.

“Father…” she gasped.

“Call me Petyr,” he breathed, pressing his lips to hers.


	2. Seek and ye shall find

Sansa froze as Father Petyr touched his mouth to hers. Her breath caught in her throat, heart slamming against her breastbone. 

Father Petyr, her sole confidant and friend, a man of the cloth who had sworn vows of chastity, was kissing her. Not as a father might kiss a child but as a man might kiss his intended. As Adam might have kissed Eve, after their encounter with the serpent. Awake and aware of both desire and shame for the very first time. 

She’d been kissed before, once or twice, but it had never been quite what she imagined as a young girl raised on fairy tales. Joffrey's hard mouth and insistent tongue had confused and frightened her, at the time. He’d been cold and demanding, leaving her lips coated in saliva once he finally retreated. 

This was wholly different. Though Father Petyr’s arms were locked around her, keeping her uncomfortably close, his mouth was gentle. His mustache tickled her top lip and their breath mingled warmly. He tasted of mint. As the initial shock faded, her eyes slipped closed, her body leaning into his of its own volition. Her mind was a cacophony, dueling desires to flee and to remain tearing her apart. Her stomach clenched, the fingers of her hand digging into his shoulder. The secret place between her legs began to throb, as though her heartbeat were centered there instead of in her chest. It frightened her, this sudden and overwhelming flood of heat and need. It was animal and unclean and she had to escape it... 

She wrenched away from his grasp, gasping for breath. They stared at one another for a long moment, Sansa struggling with words that would not come. Father Petyr looked nearly as taken aback as she and made no move toward her as she turned away and ran. 

Her well-soled shoes - a gift from Father Petyr - beat a heavy staccato across the polished wooden floor of the hallway. The chapel was behind her and the rectory to her side. She kept running, pushed open the door and fled into the early morning chill, only stopping as she reached the edge of the cemetery. She could see the church from here, sitting proud upon the hill, but was not as likely to be seen. The sun had only just begun to emerge, painting the sky in streaks of orange and pink. She’d no coat and the crisp air bit into her flesh, but it felt good. The cold eased some of the throbbing at her core, allowed her jagged breaths to slow. She watched each breath as she exhaled it, a puff of dissipating smoke. 

What had she done? 

“Led me not into temptation…” she murmured into the stillness, the rest of the verse sticking in her throat. 

With a glance back to ensure she’d not been followed, Sansa meandered into the graveyard. Most novices and sisters avoided coming here but for funerals or to tend the overgrowth. They proclaimed their belief in heaven, in salvation of a just God. And yet they feared death. Sansa didn’t fear death. Not really. She’d seen too much of it in her short time on Earth. It was cruel and it was inevitable, but it was not frightening. A life without meaning, a life lived for sin and selfish exercise - that was more cause for alarm, was it not? Because the good and just man could find a place in heaven, could one day be rejoined to the ones he’d lost. A sinner would be forever lost in the inferno. 

Sansa was already tainted, her family name a tragic joke. Simply by right of being a woman, she knew the power she held to ignite the deadliest of sins. She’d done it before to Joffrey, without ever trying. At the time, she’d excused his pawing and groping - they were to be engaged, after all. It was only to be expected that he would wish to lay hands upon her. But his hands had been far crueler than any lesson had taught her to expect. She'd counted herself lucky, at the time, to escape the match. 

Until he took his revenge upon her family. 

Her heart felt shattered into pieces, one for each life lost. All due to her refusal to wed Joffrey Lannister. It was all her fault. Every life lay heavy on her soul, binding her to her torment. Sansa Stark, the survivor of a small massacre. The girl who left nothing but destruction in her wake. 

And now… now she was working some kind of wicked magic upon Father Petyr. He had always been affectionate with her, moreso than the others. She was not blind to his preference for her. But she’d had assumed it was a familial interest that drew them together again and again. 

Foolish girl. 

Foolish and wicked and sinful. 

Her eyes began to fill and she tilted back her head, wrapping her arms around herself. She had mislead the good Father. Let him hug her, kiss her cheeks and call her lovely. She’d been starved for such niceties and he gave them so freely. His baser instincts had been inflamed, somehow, by these moments between them. She had felt it, bit by bit, and allowed it still, needing him close. She had even relished the frisson of warmth that ran through her when his lips missed her cheek and nearly caught her mouth. That flutter in her belly at the way his eye never failed to catch hers across a room. 

With the whirlwind of changes in her life, he’d appeared as a single constant and she’d been half in love with him for it. Had she only known… 

She fell to her knees in the dewy grass, not caring that the Mother would chastise her for staining her skirt. Her head down and hands clasped, she prayed silently for forgiveness. She prayed for the souls of her family. She prayed for the soul of Father Petyr. She prayed so hard, she very nearly missed the sound of footsteps as they approached.   
  


***

At first, the girl had not moved at all, her soft lips slightly parted. He could feel her intake of breath against his mouth, one of her hands curling against his shoulder - whether to pull him closer or push him away, he could not tell. Undeterred, he plucked gently at her lips, nudging her nose with his before kissing her once more. Slowly, she began to react, her mouth growing pliant, limbs loosening. Her own lips moved tentatively against his, a little clumsy but not without promise. He coaxed her open with little swipes of his tongue and she granted him shallow entry. 

As he stroked her tongue with his, she had clung to him like a lifeline, like the last remaining driftwood after a disastrous storm at sea. To her, he supposed he was. 

At length, she seemed to have regained her senses, breaking free of his arms and stumbling back. She stared at him with wild eyes, face flushed and lips swollen. She shook her head, making a sound of protest that did not quite form a word. 

He found himself equally tongue-tied, having acted upon impulse in a rare lack of restraint. He did not stop her as she turned on one heel and fled. No need to chase her just now. Where else did she have to go? 

He lowered himself heavily into a pew, head leaning back against the top of the seat. His blood was still pumping hard, most of it centered at his groin, where he’d grown heavy and thick. Swallowing a groan, he palmed his length, attempting to relieve the pressure before it edged into pain. 

This had never been part of his plan. 

It was a dangerous risk to take for a fleeting pleasure. Petyr was a clever man, meticulous and  well-practiced at playing the game of ecumenical politics. Sansa had never been a factor until she fluttered into his life a year hence. Now he’d found himself making subtle arrangements to keep her close, manipulating on her behalf rather than simply his own.

For years he’d loved and hated Catelyn Tully in nearly equal measure, driven by the need to prove to her - and her world - how deeply he’d been underestimated. By and large, he had been successful. Only now to be so artlessly undone by the daughter... 

He could not deny it - he had burned for Sansa from nearly the moment they met. Some nights he thought of nothing else, wrapping his fingers around himself and tugging hard, picturing paradise between her slender thighs. It was wholly distracting, this pulsing need that followed him every moment, kept him tense and agitated. 

Yet, he must admit, Sansa had been ignorant of his longings. A claim her late mother could not make. It only made her all the more appealing. Unlike her headstrong mother, Sansa could be seduced. She was guileless and poorly educated in the ways of men. 

He'd not had much practice with women, himself, in recent years. Not due to his title but more to choice. Seduction as a means of control or currying favor with those who considered themselves his better was no longer necessary. He'd garnered a nearly unimpeachable rank within the church. He knew just which strings to pull to keep himself there and he was quickly discovering which would continue to help him climb. Sansa need not hold him back. A man in his position could easily take a lover of either sex and the church would look the other way - so long as he was discreet and the tithes kept pouring in. 

Perhaps it was better, then, to indulge. To satiate himself with her young flesh and drive away this temporary madness that had stolen his attention away from more important matters. 

Sansa was of a curious nature, her mind quick and nimble. She would learn fast, especially with him so eager a teacher. His mind skipped ahead with all the ways he could enjoy her - and ensure she clearly enjoyed herself - in the privacy of his chambers. Now that they’d crossed one line, so  many others beckoned. 

Licking his lips to chase the last bit of her taste, Petyr followed the direction she’d gone. The rectory was still empty but the door at the end of the hall had not been latched. She’d run outside, then. Probably to the cemetery. He’d seen her there more than once, looking oddly serene among the graves. It was an odd place to find peace but, then, the ghosts of  _ her _ past were not buried here. 


	3. Chapter 3

He found her kneeling in the grass, fervent prayers dropping from her lips. He watched her a moment, spellbound by the lovely picture she made in the early morning light, the leaves above dappling her pale skin in half-shadows. Ethereal and achingly innocent. He wanted nothing more than to press her into the ground, hitch up that shapeless dress, and cover her lithe form with his own. Seeing her face contorted with pain and pleasure as she writhed beneath him would be holier than any sacrament.

He stepped closer and her eyes flew open, her prayers stuttering without quite stopping. He could feel her tense as he approached, her words growing breathy and half-formed. Extending one hand very slowly, giving her leave to pull away, he stroked her fiery hair. Starting at the crown, his fingers buried themselves in those soft tresses until they hit the first notch of her loose braid, then went back to repeat the motion. She inhaled a shaky breath, eyes sliding closed. Her shoulders sagged, hands dropping into her lap, stilted words becoming little more than a plea.

Petyr moved closer, his leg just brushing her shoulder. He could hear her more clearly, now, though her voice was barely a whisper.

“Free my heart, oh God… Forgive these evil thoughts. Please, I never meant… I could not have known… Oh God, I lay myself at your feet…”

He swallowed hard, pivoting to stand in front of her. “Sansa…”

She shook her head, her voice rising slightly as she recited broken bits of psalms.

Pursing his lips, Petyr lowered himself to his knees. The hand in her hair dropped to her chin and he gripped it just hard enough to get her attention. She fell silent, lips trembling and eyes averted.

“Sansa, look at me,” he commanded gently.

Reluctantly, she met his gaze. Her eyes were red-rimmed, full of doubt and recrimination. “Father, I did not know…”

He loosened the hand at her chin, stroking it over her jaw, thumb lingering just at the center of her bottom lip before swiping across it.  She wanted a confessor, clearly. To unburden herself of what ailed her. He could provide that, of course. He could be anything she wanted him to be, if only she would let him name his price.

“Did not know what, my child?”

“I have been… foolish. And sinful. I have lived with pride in my heart and…and... “ her voice broke and lips clamped shut. Her cheeks flushed nearly scarlet as his fingers skimmed the column of her neck. He could feel her skin prickle into gooseflesh beneath his touch. His eyes flicked down, delighted to find the tips of her pert breasts visible against the thin fabric of her dress. It may have been the cold air, but somehow he doubted that.

Petyr bit back a smile and prodded her to finish her confession. “What else, Sansa? What else has lived in that heart of yours?”

She could not look at him as she licked her lips and folded her arms across her chest. He was disappointed to be deprived of the view but reminded himself that Sansa needed to feel safe. She would only blossom for him if given the space in which to do so. He trailed his hand innocuously down the length of her upper arm, rubbing a little warmth back into it.

She looked at him, at last. “You kissed me.”

It was neither question nor accusation. Petyr inclined his head. “I did.”

“Why?”

Petyr was thoughtful for a moment, resisting the urge to shift his weight. His knees were starting to ache on the hard ground. At least the kneelers had cushions. There were any number of answers he could give her. He’d won her trust quite completely and she would willingly follow where he lead, but it was still a tricky path to navigate. Sansa was a bright girl, intuitive. He’d always quite liked that about her. At last, he settled upon the simplest of admissions.

“Does there need to be a reason for one creature of God to express affection for another?”

Her eyes narrowed, uneasy with his casual tone. “That is not an answer, Father.”

“Petyr,” he asserted, shifting closer. Both hands were on her shoulders, now, linking them bodily. “When we are alone, you must always call me by my name, my sweet.”

“We should not be alone,” Sansa dropped her gaze.

The corner of his mouth curled upward. “And why is that, I wonder? Am I so frightening? Do you fear me, Sansa?”

“No.” Her eyes swept up, searching his face and catching briefly at his mouth before returning to his eyes. “It’s not… you.”

Petyr nearly purred in satisfaction, feeling her already beginning to bend. Her gaze was nearly hungry as his own, wanting without understanding. Oh, what a pretty prize he’d caught himself. So perfectly primed for corruption. She just needed a guiding hand.  

“You fear yourself, Sansa?” he murmured, his voice pitched low and eyes never leaving hers. “Do you fear what you may do to a man, even a holy one such as myself?” He leaned closer, whispering against her ear, “How a man might wish to feast on you, more delectable on his tongue than any nectar… to give and take that forbidden pleasure, bodies joined in earthly ecstasy. How a man might long to move inside you and steal your breath with lingering kisses, fill your prayers with only his name?” He leaned back, just far enough to recapture her gaze.

Sansa’s sharp intake of breath, the flush that spread to her neck, and the way her eyes were slightly glazed were all answer enough but still he watched her struggle, force out the words she assumed must be said.

“I did not mean to seduce you, Father. I know if is in my nature to be wicked but this sin was not my intent. I swear it.” She swallowed, lips pressing together before she wet them with the tip of her tongue. “Please, forgive me this trespass? Forgive me that which I did not - could not - knowingly have done?” she panted, eyes searching his face. “Please… forgive me?”

Petyr bit back a smile at her hollow plea. The words were rote, memorized and meaningless. The passion of her earlier prayers had left her behind, overtaken by what now lay bare in the words unspoken. Desire. Undiluted and raw. He could read it in the way she pitched forward, pupils blown wide, breath coming short. He could read it in the way her hands restlessly gripped her own arms, itching to breach the gap between them. It would be easy to take her, just like this, to make her moan and thrash in the wet grass, to leave her behind ruined and cold. But Petyr was realizing that he wanted so much more than a quick fuck from Sansa Stark.

He wanted to own her, savor her, worship her, degrade her. He wanted to be the cause of every whimper and moan, to dry every tear and swallow every sigh. He wanted to know the unique flavor of every inch of her body. He wanted her mouth and her cunt and her heart and her mind. He wanted her very soul to submit to him, to cosset and assuage his wounds, to give him refuge within her bosom.

He wanted all of her. Every. Single. Bit.

But first... she had to come to him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: a little splendor in the grass ;-)


	4. Lift Up Your Hands to the Holy Place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first bit of smut! More on the way ;-)

He’d found her at prayer, knelt in front of her and told her to call him by his Christian name. Now he was so close, so very close the scent of mint and the perfumed soap he used pervaded her senses. Clouded her mind so that all she could seem to think of was the feel of his mouth against hers, the press of his lean form, the shivers that followed in the wake of his touch. It all seemed too familiar, too visceral, too real. His eyes a steely grey, delving deep within her soul, unearthing all the dormant things she’d laid to rest there. His hands on her shoulders keeping her earthbound, as though she might otherwise float away into the heavens.

Sansa stared at the good Father, stuck somewhere between disbelief and tears. No, he did not frighten her. But he should.

She was no siren, no Delilah, no honey-tongued seductress of men. Yet under the heat of his gaze, she felt all that and more. And so it must be true.

Left no other foreseeable recourse, she begged for his forgiveness, penitent as any misguided acolyte could be. As she spoke, however, she felt her own words ring false. It was a strange and uneasy thing, to plead for absolution while the mind contemplated only further sin. It could not be helped, she thought desperately, when he remained so close. When he watched her lips with such blatant hunger.

If this had been a garden not a graveyard and she stood before the tree, the voice of her Lord and creator in her unblemished mind, the temptation could not have been greater. But was Father Petyr her Adam or her serpent? Or was he the apple, itself, ripe near to bursting as she sunk in her teeth?

He did not respond, did not absolve her of her rather unoriginal sin. Only watched her silently, eyes focused and intense in that way that made her silently ache. The question he'd asked her - in words unholy and deliciously filthy - had kindled a flame in the base of her spine. He spoke of things she only understood from being sworn against them. Acts of a carnal and ungodly nature. And she burned for more. All thoughts of piety were driven out by his litany of profane possibilities.

“Please… forgive me?”

 _Please deny me. Please make my path easy and full of light. Please do not leave me here to suffer in the torment of unfulfilled need._ Her mind screamed a million things all at once yet the Father said nothing, only tilted his forehead to hers, his eyes falling closed. His breath was on her mouth, that lingering scent of mint, but his lips did not trespass again. Her fingers were claws against her own arms, scrabbling for a hint of control, of whatever decency was left in her tarnished soul.

It was a battle already lost.

His name was on her lips as she tasted him, the sound of it muffled between them. A soft press, mouths slightly open, wet heat exchanged in a sigh. They held there for the space of a moment and Sansa nearly pulled away, her sin completed. And then he was on her, his arms wrapped tight, allowing no space between them. He bore her to the grass, damp and slippery against her back, the ground cold beneath it. Breathless and dazed, she could only move against him, could only let him take her mouth again and again.

Breathing hard, his body flush to hers, cradled lewdly between her thighs, Petyr trailed biting kisses the length of her neck. Sansa gasped, her fingers burying themselves in his cropped hair, her hips undulating. The place between her legs was throbbing, soaking through her underclothes as Petyr ground himself against her. He snaked a hand between them, bunching up her skirt and seeking out the laces that held up her only undergarment.

Sansa tried to protest, knew that this could go no further without consequence. They were lustful sinners, true, but God could forgive, God could take mercy on a momentary weakness. But if Petyr were to enter her, to take her maidenhead, to -God forbid- get her with child… It could not be undone.

“Mustn't…” She managed to grit out, her hand stilling his eager one.

He lifted his head and looked down at her, eyes dark and half lidded. “My Sansa…. my sweet…” His hand pulled from under hers to cup her sex through the fabric. The cotton clung to her slick flesh, leaving his palm damp. He smiled, a sharp and toothy thing. A fox on the scent of a fresh young chick. The heel of his hand pressed down and Sansa nearly took the Lord’s name in vain at the spark of sheer pleasure such a simple action produced. His smile widened and he repeated the motion. Then again, slowly rolling his palm, the tips of his fingers stroking over the fabric covering her entrance.

Sansa whimpered as tension coiled in her belly. Her body was alight, every nerve singing. Tighter and tighter her muscles pulled, clenching deep within. Wanting. Wanton. Desperate. Her head tipped back, Petyr's mouth devouring her throat, licking and sucking at her pulse point. His hand still flexed and stroked at her sex, driving her steadily up an unknown peak. Until suddenly everything went white hot with unspeakable bliss. A strangled cry escaped her lips and she felt Petyr cover her mouth with one hand, the other still petting her between her legs.

Shaking and panting against his warm palm, Sansa watched the clouds overhead. Her body felt loose-limbed and heavy. She blinked up at the sky until it was blotted out by Petyr's smirking face.

Father Petyr.

Oh God.

“We'd best get you back in before they ring the first bells, yeah?” He suggested, almost conversational but for the glint in his eye. And the fact that he spoke while withdrawing his hand from her most intimate place. He was still noticeably hard as he stood to help her up, jutting obscenely against his cassock.

Sansa’s eye fell unbidden upon him, curious despite herself.

Father Petyr followed her gaze, his tongue darting out to trace his lower lip. “There will be time for that, sweetling. Go clean up and begin your day.” He offered her a hand. Sansa took it, her knees watery as she came to her feet. Father Petyr pulled her close so that she could feel his hardness press into her belly. In her ear, he whispered “meet me tonight after sundown. In the rectory.”

A tiny, fluttering kiss to the curve of her jaw and he released her, sending her back up the hill toward the convent. The sisters would be risen by now and would have noted her absence. The Mother Superior would be furious. Sansa’s chores were sure to increase.

Such trivial things mattered not, as Sansa stumbled away from her own undoing.

Her mind was spinning, filled with such decadent depravity, cheeks ruddy with the crude nature of her thoughts. Oh, how little it took for a woman to fall. For a man to give in to his basest desires in her wake. But who led and who followed on this path to perdition?

Judas had betrayed with a kiss, after all.


	5. Love Thyself as Thy Neighbor

Sansa was not in attendance at evening Mass. Petyr assumed she was following through on whatever punishment had been assigned for her morning tardiness and dishabille. 

He imagined she’d have a few choice words about the Mother Superior for his ears only. She often did. 

He waited long into the night for a knock at the rectory door. He read - anything but scripture, of course - and he paced the stone floor. He chewed mint leaf after mint leaf gathered from the sisters’ garden. Not a sign of the girl. No mincing steps approaching. No soft breath taken before whispering his name. Not a sound. 

His disappointment quickly turned to ire and then to just the slightest hint of dread. 

Perhaps he had been mistaken and Sansa Stark was not so ripe for the plucking, after all. Her night may have been spent on her knees but in genuine prayer rather than the kind of worship he had intended. A frightened little bird, heart fluttering fit to burst. It seemed unlikely but Petyr was not so arrogant as to imagine himself infallible. Sadly, only God could be that. 

This in mind, he made his way to the chapel. It was dark and still, candles burnt to nothing but pools of wax. He frowned, straining his eyes for a glimpse of red hair among the shadows. She was not there. He thought to check the cemetery, feet leading him toward the back door of the chapel, but then changed his mind. No, he would not give chase twice in one day. With a low sound of irritation, he left the empty chapel and returned to his own room for the night. 

His hands balled into fists, once inside his chamber door, blood pumping hot and fast. He’d been in agony all day, anticipating another tryst with his sweet darling. She had thwarted his plans and thus left him to either seek her out once more or pretend their earlier dalliance had been merely his overwrought imagination playing tricks. He stripped himself of his cassock, throwing it to the floor. His sac was aching and heavy with the prolonged need for release. He stroked a hand along his shaft, bringing himself easily back to full hardness. 

Sitting back on the bed without even bothering to pull down the covers, he closed his eyes and pictured Sansa. Spread out on the ground just as he’d had her that morning, hair askew and eyes gone glassy with desire. He conjured up her mewling little cries, the wetness that had coated his hand as he pleasured her. In his mind the image shifted and she allowed him to tear away those sodden undergarments. She pleaded for him to take her, right there in the grass, to plunge himself deep and claim her as his own. Petyr’s hand moved faster on his cock, swiping at the leaking head with his thumb. He bucked into his own palm, picturing himself pounding into sweet little Sansa’s virgin cunt, growling her name, biting at her breasts like an animal. Her head would be thrown back as she screamed his name, begging for more, needing to be his and his alone. He shuddered as his release washed over him, biting the inside of his cheek to hold back a groan. 

He tipped his head back against the headboard and sighed, body going lax as he removed his sticky hand from his cock. It softened against his thigh and he caught his breath, Sansa’s face still present in his mind’s eye. A softer image, now, hazy with affection, as the edge of raw need diminished. 

She’d seemed so very eager just that morning. Surely one admonishment from the Mother Superior could not have reset her path so easily. Tomorrow he would seek her out privately, inquire as to her state of mind, her pointed absence from the evening services, as well as from their established rendez-vous. He’d won her over once and he could certainly do it again. 

After wiping himself clean with a spare rag, he was pulling on his nightshirt when he heard a tapping sound at his door. 

“Father?” a moment’s hesitation, then, “Petyr?” 

A wide grin stretched across his mouth as he crossed the room but he schooled his face to neutrality before unlatching the door and cracking it open. 

Pale and wide eyed, Sansa stood barefoot and in her nightdress with a shawl thrown overtop. She heaved an audible sigh of relief as he appeared. “May I come in?”

“This isn’t the rectory, Sansa,” he asserted, not moving an inch. 

She pressed her lips together, shifting from one foot to the other. “I know.”

He blinked at her. “It’s very late. You made me wait a long time, sweetling.” 

She cast her glance down to her feet as she wrapped the shawl tighter. “I am sorry. May I at least warm myself a moment before I return to the dormitory?” Bringing her sapphire gaze back to his, lashes fluttering, she asked, “Please, Father?”

A laugh bubbled up in his chest. Sly little girl wanted to play those games already, did she? She might find him a more formidable opponent than she anticipated. Still, there was something to be said for the precocious effort. 

He let her dangle a moment longer before he swung open the door. Sansa stepped into the room, looking around with open curiosity. No other novice had ever been allowed into his private chambers. The sisters were not even welcome, there. 

It was not sumptuous by any means - not what Petyr would consider such - but compared to the barren dormitory rooms at the convent, he imagined his room felt like a palace. He had not yet stoked a fire but the windows were positioned to make the most of the warmth from the evening sunlight and the plush carpets underfoot were far preferable to wood or stone. Sansa wiggled her toes into the thick fibres, taking in all the little touches he’d added over the years. A painting here, a richly colored throw there. Shelves upon shelves of books, many of which had been banned by his own church. Polished wooden furniture with ornate carvings at the corners. 

She ran a hand over the curved end of his bedframe. “Your room is beautiful.” 

“I like beautiful things,” he replied simply. 

She looked back over one shoulder, coy in the moonlight. “Is this how all men of God live? Sworn to poverty but surrounded by decadence?” 

The corner of his mouth twitched. He could still feel the air of uncertainty around her, the tremor in her voice that belied her boldness. Ignoring her pert question, he stepped toward her. “Explain yourself.”

Sansa turned slowly to face him. “I told myself I would not meet with you tonight.... Or indeed any night. Nothing holy can come of this… this… association between us, Fa- Petyr.” She ducked her head, hands twitching and fiddling with the ends of her shawl. “I had to lie to the Mother Superior, today. I haven’t had to do that since I first arrived. It was as though she could see to my very soul. Could see how sullied I was, how unfit for my place here among the Sisters... “

Petyr’s brow quirked. “You fear losing your home here? That will never happen.”

Sansa looked up sharply, “It could. If the Mother were to know what I really am… the things I…” her voice trailed off but her cheeks flushed as she swallowed hard. She turned away, hands coming to her face. Petyr closed the space between them in two more steady strides. He did not reach for her just yet but he knew she felt him near. 

“You have a home here, Sansa,” he murmured against the shell of her ear. “So long as I have command of this Parish and a breath left in my body. I promise, I will protect you.” He shaped her waist with both hands, thumbs rubbing circles on either side of her spine. 

Sansa released a long breath. “Can you protect us both from God’s judgement?”

He gave a dark chuckle, nosing along her neck, “Sweetling, am I not ordained to do God’s will? I keep his sacrament upon this Earth. The Holy Spirit moves through me, as it does through you.” He moved her braid aside, trailing his lips to her hairline and down to the collar of her nightdress. She shivered as he spoke but did not pull away. 

His hands slid smoothly up, over her ribs, to cup each full breast. Their tips perked into his palms even as Sansa made a soft sound of dissent. 

“But must we not stay on the path to righteousness, though beset by temptations of the - Oh!” she gasped as his lips found purchase at the juncture of her neck and shoulder - “of the flesh,” she hissed as his teeth sunk in. 

“We merely made in His image, it is only by His design that this flesh yearns and yields. That we find connection and pleasure through touch…” He rolled both her nipples between thumbs and forefingers and Sansa’s hips juddered. “And you, my devoted darling, are a bride-to-be of Christ, himself. There is holiness in the act of consummation on a marriage bed, is there not?” 

He felt Sansa shaking her head, even as her body betrayed her, back arching and breath coming fast. One hand stayed at her breasts, tweaking and pulling the stiff peaks through the fabric. The other traveled lower, over her abdomen, the muscles dancing beneath his fingertips. Once he’d reached her hip, he began to gather the skirt of her nightdress, pulling it up over her legs.  He found the gathered edge of her undergarment, sitting loosely at her hips. His hand slid in almost too easily, fingers toying with the curls above her sex. He could feel her heat, smell her slick scent in the air. 

Sansa stilled but made no move to break free of his grasp.“Fath-Petyr,” she whispered, “Please…”

“Please what, my child?” He murmured, planting an open mouthed kiss against her jaw. 

She held her breath for a long moment, his hand resting patiently just above where it longed most to be. Her voice, when it broke the silence, was tiny, almost child-like. “Please, do not hurt me?”


	6. At Your Right Hand are Pleasures Forevermore

Her voice, when it broke the silence, was tiny, almost child-like. “Please, do not hurt me?” **  
**

Petyr froze, an unexpectedly protective instinct awakening within. For just the space of a moment, he pondered a life where he had taken a different path. Where his lust for power had given way before he took his vows and instead he took a wife. Young and pretty, with red hair. A lovely, darling creature who lay eagerly in wait for him on their marriage bed. Joined before God in a truly holy union, rather than the mockery he intended to make. It was a pretty picture.

But it was not the world in which they lived, not the path he had chosen. His mind neatly closed that door and he felt more himself.

He withdrew his hands from Sansa and she seemed to sag against him with relief. Gripping her delicately by the shoulders, he directed her to sit at the foot of the bed. She obeyed and he lowered himself beside her.

“Sansa,” he began, clearing his throat. She looked at him hesitantly. “I have no wish to cause you harm, you must believe me.” He took her nearest hand in both of his and slowly brought it to his lips. “As we live in God’s love and protection, so you live in mine. I wish only to express my affections for you.” Holding her gaze, he brushed an almost gallant kiss to her trembling hand.

Sansa managed the smallest of smiles, her gaze drifting to his lips on her hand and then back to his eyes. “I am grateful for it. Truly, I am.”

He raised an eyebrow, lowering her hand. “You seemed far more than grateful a moment ago, sweetling.” He spoke of gratitude distastefully, allowing her to see a flicker of hurt run across his face. “And is it gratitude that brought you to my chamber in the middle of the night? Gratitude that had you writhing in my arms, finding your pleasure at my hand this morning?”

Sansa flushed a scarlet hue, dropping her eyes to her lap, withdrawing her hand from his. “Father, please…”

“Have I given you any cause to expect hurt from me?” he pursued “That you would shy away so suddenly, turn so cold when I have shown you nothing but warmth?”

Sansa’s eyes shut tightly, humiliation writ plain on her features. Petyr felt a pang of conscience. Perhaps he had pressed her too hard… but he was so close. He could taste her ultimate surrender with the very tip of his tongue. He was contemplating sending her back to her bed untouched, at least for the night, better judgement wrestling with animal instinct, when she finally spoke.

“I am a virgin. Despite what tales Joffrey might have told. And all I have ever known, all that I was told as a girl, is that the... “ here she took a deep breathe before going on, stammering slightly over the next word, “consummation is painful. That I would tear and bleed for my… husband.” She scrubbed at her face with both hands. “Joffrey would take great joy in… describing the ways he might hurt me upon our wedding night. It frightens me, still.”

Petyr frowned deeply, something flaring within that shook him in its intensity. Hatred. Curious, that. It had been years since he’d allowed himself the indulgence of raw emotion. Yet here he was brimming with it, undiluted and feral. He was suddenly most viciously satisfied that the nasty brat had been disposed of at his doing. At the time, he’d acted for both the memory of his beloved Cat and the safety of Sansa - as well as a few additional personally beneficial factors due to his association with the Tyrell family. Now, there was a part of him that only wished he’d found a way to truly make the little bastard suffer. Without a word, Petyr rose from the bed and dropped to both knees at Sansa’s feet.

She blinked at him, slightly startled. “Father Petyr?”

He took both of her hands in his. “Do you trust me, Sansa?”

She hesitated briefly before nodding.

“Then believe me when I say that there will be as little pain for you as a body could possibly allow. And I will outweigh it with pleasure tenfold. It is my pledge and vow to you.” At her uncertainty, he added, “Nothing need happen between us tonight, my sweet. Only what you will.”

She studied his face, her expression so mixed as to be nearly unreadable. Petyr felt himself holding his breath under her scrutiny. At length, she softened, leaning down slowly to brush her lips to his. He sighed into the kiss, fighting the urge to deepen it, allowing her to take the lead. Unpracticed but eager, she led him through the steps of the dance he’d begun to teach her that morning. Once her tongue found his, he slid both hands to her waist, urging her to move back onto the bed so that he may lay beside her. Not atop. Not yet.

They resumed kissing at a leisurely pace, his hand stroking steadily, reassuringly over the curve of her waist and hip. Sansa’s hand cupped the back of his head, fingers in his hair. Every now and then, her thumb would brush the back of his ear, sending a pleasant shiver through him. He was growing hard once more and made no attempt to tamp down his body’s reaction.

Sansa hummed contently and shifted closer. His erection brushed her hip and she looked down as though she'd forgotten what her kisses could incite.

The corner of Petyr's mouth quirked,”Have you seen a man aroused, before?”

Eyes still fixed on his anatomy, she shook her head. “My friend Jeyne once showed me a book with naughty pictures. I don't know where she got it but we looked through it one afternoon. I… it made me feel… I made her promise never to show me such things again. It seemed immoral.” There she looked up and graced him with the hint of an ironic smile. “I never confessed it, though. Not until tonight.”

Petyr felt himself smiling back. “How old were you?”

She shrugged one shoulder. “Twelve? Thirteen? Little more than a child, though I thought myself quite grown at the time.”

His smiled broadened. “So wicked so young. Ah, my sweet girl.” He caressed her cheek.

She turned her face to nuzzle his palm. “Am I so wicked? If the Holy Spirit is with us, in this very bed as you so claim, am I not merely complying with God's plan?”

Petyr's eyes narrowed, the smile fading from his lips. “If I didn't know better, Sweet, I'd say you were mocking me.”

Sansa’s eyes went wide, “Would you think me capable of that?”

He studied her lips, swollen and red from his kisses, “I think you capable of a great many things.”

Her throat worked soundlessly and without warning, he closed his mouth over her pulse point. Her gasp melted into a moan as he flicked his tongue over its rising beat, rolling their bodies together and pressing his hard flesh against her. This time, when his hand rucked up the fabric of her nightdress, she shimmied to aid the movement. He rid her of her undergarment, noting with satisfaction that the gusset was already damp.

Released her neck with some reluctance, he plucked at the top of her nightdress. “May we remove this entirely?”

Her face was scarlet, instantly, but she nodded, sitting up to allow them to lift the garment over her head. Her hands crossed over her exposed breasts, shoulders hunching instinctively.

Ever so gently, Petry tugged one arm and then the other away, laying her back against the plush blanket and feather-stuffed pillows. Arranging himself side-long beside her, he stroked her face, eyes sweeping across her body. His cock throbbed almost painfully at the pale twin curves of her breasts, tipped in rose petal pink, the plane of her belly and the span of her hips, a dusting of red curls at her mound that he’d felt but not seen before.

Petyr was no stranger to the game of seduction. He’d taken the confession of many skillful practitioners and even plied the art himself when it suited his needs. Sansa naked and blushing in his bed might have left him speechless and gasping without such tools at his disposal.

“You are truly exquisite,” he whispered into her ear, eliciting the faintest of smiles. Skimming the length of her throat with just his fingertips, he leaned over, propping himself in elbow, to mouth at her collarbones. He heard her intake of breath, watched her ribs expand, her breasts rise and fall, nipples tightening. Her skin prickled into gooseflesh and she squirmed slightly at his ministrations. “Utter perfection,” he murmured dreamily against the slope of one breast.  

Sansa bit back a girlish giggle but his ears still caught the dulcet titter and he swallowed a chuckle of his own.

Lust was a powerful sin, indeed, but vanity was her close cousin. Both could be so artfully employed to part a young lady from her virtue.

He kissed his way down the valley between her breasts, bringing his hand to cup and massage one as his tongue swiped the sensitive underside of the other. Sansa made a breathy little sound, pushing her chest toward his eager mouth. With open mouthed kisses, he circled one pink little peak, closing in until he took it between his lips. He teased it with flicks of his tongue and Sansa grasped at the blanket between them. A quick glance up showed her head thrown back, mouth pressed tight against the very sounds he had hoped to elicit. He suckled her breast, just grazing the tight bud with his teeth and heard a little whine escape the back of her throat.

Oh yes. More of that.

He moved his head to the other breast, his erection pressing against her as he half-covered her with his body. Her arms wound around him as he lavished her chest with kisses, licks, and nibbles. One of her hands made its way to his hair, her nails scratching his scalp when he found a spot she particularly liked. He took his cues from her sighs and tentative touches, from the way her hips shifted, seeking friction. She was deliciously responsive, so tender and unwittingly sensual. He felt her hesitations falling away under his hungry mouth and roaming hands.

His hand travelled downward, through her damp curls, to where she was molten heat and pure desire. When he found the apex of her thighs, she did not tense or pull away. Petyr could have sworn aloud had his lips not been otherwise occupied. Just the tip of one finger pressed inward and Sansa shuddered against him, clutching his hair tightly. Her hips shunted, seemingly of their own volition and his finger slid to the knuckle. His cock gave an insistent throb, no doubt envious of his fingers. Sansa keened, her inner muscles fluttering at the intrusion.

Reluctantly, he looked up - as best he could with her tight grip on his hair.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asked, drinking in her rosy hue, the wild look in her darkened eyes.

Her gaze met his, lips trembling as they formed the word he longed to hear. “No.”

Petyr smiled and kissed her deeply. He’d make a libertine of her yet.


	7. Spill Not Your Seed

Sansa found her rapture twice that night, clenching around Petyr’s fingers and letting him swallow her fervent cries. It felt different with a part of him inside her, the sensation pulling from deep within, radiating up her spine and down her legs.There was a flicker of pain when he entered her with a second finger but it was quickly drowned out by another wave of bliss. Her toes curled and flexed against the blankets, back arching, hips working of their own volition. She felt possessed by some primal spirit, her mind going blank and her body malleable under his ardent caresses. She _needed_. Oh, she needed unlike she’d ever thought to need anything before. Not water or food or even the air she breathed. It was madness and ecstasy by turns. His touch set fire to her blood and she burned from within until at last she begged him to give her rest.

She feared she’d be nothing but a cinder, come sunrise.

With a knowing chuckle that could not be mistaken for tenderness, he relented. Making sure to catch her eye, he brought his fingers to his mouth and lapped her essence from them.

Sansa’s eyes widened, as did Petyr’s smirk.

“You taste like ambrosia, sweetling,” he murmured. He extended his still-glistening hand toward her mouth but she shied away. Nonplussed, he stroked her jaw and leaned in for a kiss.

It took her a moment to realize she’d been tricked, his tongue slipping into her mouth. He still tasted faintly of mint, but now it was musky as well, with a hint of salt. Unfamiliar but not unpleasant. Turning on her side, she kissed him back, nipping playfully.

He pulled back with a laugh, more genuine this time, oddly boyish for a man of his years. There was a gleam in his eye as he moved his lips to her ear. “Next time, I will bring you off with my mouth, as well. And then you will kiss me after, just like you did now, yes?”

She took a moment to process the words, the heat of his breath sending a shiver through her, her nipples tightening again. If she was not already flushed from head to toe, she might have turned pinker. Shameful how easy it had been to find herself in his bed, under his hands. She’d told herself she would not succumb again. She nearly kept that promise half the night. Until she found herself tossing and turning in her narrow bed, her skin hot and tight, the place between her legs aching for touch. For _his_ touch.

She was not so naive as to believe that God would condone their sin, though it was a pleasant fairy tale he’d spun her. Father Petyr was no husband and she no blushing bride. But if she repented, she could still be cleansed of their deeds, some day. Could still find her way back with the right guide. Until one came along, there was only Petyr. His hands and his mouth and the way his eyes burned into her, stripped her naked long before she ever shed her clothes for him. She wanted him and she was tired of hating herself for it. Trapped in a prison of flesh that knew no earthly kindness but his. What did it matter if she strayed just a little? What good was absolution to the innocent, after all?

“Sansa?” he pressed.

“Yes, Petyr,” she breathed.

“There’s my good girl,” he crooned, hand smoothing over her hip, one thumbnail scratching across her hipbone. “I’ve so longed to taste you.” He kissed her neck, just below her ear and moving toward her shoulder. Her eyes fell closed, breath stuttering as he worried the delicate skin there with his teeth. “I knew you’d be divine, so fresh and ripe and unplucked. All mine to savor…” he whispered. He thrust his hips shallowly, the part of him she had not yet even touched was hot and firm against her belly. “My Sansa,” he muttered, his hand coming to her low back to hold her tight against his body as his hips ground against her.

Sansa swallowed, aware he was seeking his own end but unsure what he wished of her. She stroked his hair, tugging it lightly between her fingers, as he’d seemed to enjoy when he was kissing her breasts. He groaned and rolled back to yank up his nightclothes, baring his lower body. Sansa’s breath escaped her, her eyes drawn to his length. It looked something like the drawings she’d seen, only a darker shade of pink and slick with fluid at the top. She licked her lips, wondering how on earth any woman could fit such a thing inside them, when two slim fingers had stretched her so.

Petyr wrapped one hand around himself, stroking upward, his thumb brushing over the top. Her eyes flicked to his face, and his were already trained on her, his lips slightly parted. He released himself and reached for her hand, wrapping her fingers loosely around him.

The skin was smooth and surprisingly soft, like heated silk. With a little pressure from his fingers, he encouraged her to tighten her grip. He guided her upward and back down until the side of her hand rested in the thatch of dark hair at the base. His hand over hers, they repeated the motion once. Twice.

He let his hand fall to his stomach, atop the bunched nightclothes. Sansa stroked him firmly and carefully, feeling him pulse in her fingers. Her eyes wandered to his slim hips, his splayed legs, slender and well-shaped with a sparse covering of hair. Sansa sat up more to free her other hand, running it over his thighs and lower belly, exploring him as he had explored her, seeking out those places that made him draw an audible breath. He did not still her wandering hand, only watched her through slitted eyes, his chest rising and falling heavily.

He was still far more covered than she yet he seemed so… bare. Raw and exposed, the muscles in his thighs quivering and bunching at her touch.

Tentatively, she tried to duplicate what she'd seen him do earlier, moving upward, her thumb getting sticky as she clumsily swiped it over the top.

Petyr's mouth fell further open, jaw going slightly slack. “Do that again,” he rasped, voice rougher than she'd ever heard it.

For a moment she wondered what might happen if she did not obey. If she withheld what he wanted. What would he do, then? Something stirred in her, a tickle at the back of her mind, the shadowy whisp of possibility she'd never have considered. Then it was gone and she moved her hand again as directed.

He instructed her to quicken her pace, the fluid from his leaking tip slicking her grip. His face flushed, breath going ragged and fast as her hand moved. His hips shifted in rhythm with her strokes, thrusting up to meet her fist as it rose and fell. All the while, his half closed eyes never left her face. His hand covered hers once more and they worked in tandem, the movement nearly a blur. At last he stilled, thighs and low belly taut, his face slightly contorted as a low moan issued from his lips. His seed spilled down over their hands and onto his lap, viscous and hot.

After taking a moment to catch his breath, Petyr pulled her close and kissed her, hard. “My sweet girl,” he murmured against her lips, “you have brought me to heaven's very gates…”

Sansa watched as he cleaned their hands and himself with the hem of his nightclothes, fascinated and repulsed in nearly equal measure. Was that all it took to quicken a womb? To create life? _Spill not your seed upon the ground_ … But what of in the hands of an acolyte? Sansa bit back a giggle, feeling oddly childish and yet very, very grown all at once. Jeyne, for all her fancies and talk of boys, had never done such a thing as this. Had never brought a man to ecstasy through her touch.

Sansa paused in her musings. Lust temporarily sated, pride seemed to come fast on its heels. Was it always so? One sin tripping so easily into another?

She thought of asking Father Petyr but stilled her tongue. There was no holy teaching between them now. She was his pupil, still, but to a wholly new end. She had the feeling he might not encourage this sin of Pride as well as he stoked the other.

And she rather liked the chance to indulge in both.

 

 


	8. Tit for Tat

Sansa let him pull her to her feet, hardly even aware of her state of undress any longer. It felt almost natural to be with him like this, her inner thighs coated in her own pleasure while his streaked across the bottom of his nightshirt. She felt giddy, her heart at unsteady gallop. 

He held out her nightgown to her. “Alas the morning light will find us all too soon and I've no desire for the Mother to assign you more chores. I might never find time to sneak you away from them,” he jested. 

Sansa's mouth twisted. “Am I really to be scrubbing floors for a month? I did not tell her how or why I was detained, merely that I'd gone walking and lost the time.” She shrugged on her nightdress. “Surely you would not see me used so cruelly?” 

Petyr hesitated, his gaze shifting away and back. “It may be I cannot intervene, Sweetling. How would it look if I were to show such favor?”

Her lips formed a moue, much as they had when she was a child, imploring her indulgent father. She clasped her hands before her. “You are far too clever for that. I am certain you can persuade the Mother Superior without compromising us.” She licked her lips and stepped closer, mind working fast. “Besides, the water will roughen my fingers and the labor could leave me far too exhausted for… anything else.” 

Father Petyr's eyes narrowed and Sansa quailed, certain she'd gone too far. Her hands tightened to keep from shaking. Then a short laugh escaped the Father. He shook his head, tucking a stray lock of her hair behind her ear. 

“How fast they grow,” he sighed. “If I do you this service, how shall I be thanked?” His eyebrow raised. 

Sansa, feeling flushed with success, splayed her hands, “how… do you wish to be thanked?”

A slow smile spread across his face, curling his lips and baring his teeth but never meeting his eyes. “I can think of a great many ways, Sweetling.” His eyes flicked to the window. “Go. Return to your bed. Come to me tomorrow night only do not be so late, this time.”

“Tomorrow? Not tonight?” she queried. 

He framed her face with both hands. “So eager, my little lamb… But all God's creatures must rest and we've both been nearly two nights without sleep. Tomorrow night. When the bell chimes eleven.” He kissed her, a brief, also chaste brush of his lips. 

Drunk on her newfound boldness, Sansa deepened the kiss, folding her arms around his waist to pull them bodily together. Her tongue found his easily and she hummed her approval as he suckled her lower lip. 

He made a low sound at the back of his throat and pulled away. “Go. Before I claim my reward now and make us both indecently late for morning prayers,” he nearly growled, pushing her toward the door. 

Sansa crept back to her room and caught a few winks of sleep before the Mother roused them. Through morning prayer, she willed her eyes away from Father Petyr. When she did venture a glance, he was not looking at her. The Latin words her lips formed felt duller than ever, the world flat and without color. 

She attended her chores, loathsome laundry again, today. The air was whipping and cold, her fingers numb as she hung plain cotton bedsheets in the line with a frown. 

When she first arrived, full of nothing but fear and heartbreak, she'd welcomed such busy work. Anything to keep her hands occupied and her mind blank. Over time it lost much of its charm but she'd already committed herself to this path. She'd always been the dutiful one, after all. She could only imagine Arya in such a state. She'd tear down the sheets and roll them in filth, then throw them in the Mother’s face with a fearless laugh. 

A lump rose in Sansa’s throat as she recalled her young sister, nearly her opposite in every way. Wild where Sansa had always been subdued, rough where Sansa was gentle. But both of them with a stubborn streak that bled to their very core. They'd hardly spent a day without fighting since Arya could talk. What she wouldn't give to share in one more row… yet for all she knew, the Lannisters may have already robbed her of that, as well. No one had ever found Arya. She was a fighter but only a young girl and the Lannisters were powerful indeed. 

Throwing herself back into the work, Sansa wrung out the next sheet with enough vigor to nearly tear it in two. 

After afternoon tea, the Mother Superior approached her. 

“Sansa, you've been reassigned.”

“Mother?”’Sansa blinked at the older woman. 

“You sew, do you not?”

Sansa allowed herself a small smile. “I do, Mother. I’ve a good hand at embroidery and cross stitching.”

The Mother's eyes narrowed, “is that pride I detect, young lady?” 

Sansa ducked her head immediately, the picture of modesty. “No, Mother. It is only by God’s gracious will that I was given such excellent tutelage.”

The Mother made a doubtful noise but let it pass without further comment. “Follow me.” 

Sansa's new assignment was in a pleasant, well lit room with three of the nuns who welcomed her warmly. They showed her plans for swaths of fabric to sell at the local market. It would raise money for the church’s many charities, the plump Sister with dimples cheeks informed her. 

The work was complicated but with a little practice, Sansa felt up to the task. A secret smile bloomed from within as she pushed the needle through the fine fabric. No more laundry. No mention was made of scrubbing floors. She supposed Father Petyr had more than earned his thanks. 

That night, she fell almost instantly asleep, dreaming of apple trees, grey-green eyes, and long fingered hands. 

***

Her scent lingered in his room, upon his bedding, on his hands. It was maddening in the most delightful way. 

Petyr did not sleep much even when not in a state of agitation. With her memory so near, so tangible, he found more than perfunctory rest to be impossible. Her image against his eyelids, writhing and mewling, so lush and so pliant. Feeling her greedy cunt sucking in his fingers had very nearly undone him like a callow schoolboy. 

And like that foolish boy, he'd allowed her to play him, to turn his desire into action benefitting her. It was an unpracticed stroke but executed with a surprising precision. He, still wobbly legged and giddy from climax, a little too receptive and willing to indulge her. He ought to have let her scrub the floors, and assigned more besides. 

Yet she'd made an excellent point. Already the skin of her hands was calloused and chafed. Too much time spent in frigid water, scrubbing and wringing out damp clothing. Not rough but no longer the hands of a gentle lady unfamiliar with a day's work. 

Now that he thought of it, he would give her an oil to soften her hands. It would be simple enough to obtain. It would also be most convenient to keep some by his bedside, as he fully intended have her hands upon him again. Her mouth, as well, in due time. And then… Well, his persuasion had not failed him, yet. 

Sansa would be his entirely. He need just have patience. 

 


	9. Pleasures divine

She came to him with no hesitation, this time, tripping to his door and tapping twice just after the last evening bell. 

The demure smile that curved her lips as she slipped past him and he closed the door was a delightful contrast to the wicked gleam in her sapphire eyes. He leaned back against the door, taking in her silhouette. The glow of the small fire below his mantle against her skin painted her nearly ethereal. A golden goddess made flesh. An angel mid-fall, and all his to despoil. 

Not daring to breathe a word and break the spell, he closed the distance between them. Sansa's hand came to his shoulders as his settled at her waist. 

“I should thank you,” she murmured, a breath away from his mouth. She need not elaborate. They both knew the mild risk he'd happily undertaken for just such a result. 

“Then thank me,” he agreed, tilting his head to capture her lips. 

Her tongue was more eager than before, greeting his and flitting away, coaxing him to open wider, to kiss her harder. Sansa hummed her encouragement, one hand gathering the fabric of his nightclothes as the other cradled the back of his head. His cock was stirring already, seeking friction between their bodies. 

Both were breathless as they pulled apart and a little giddy with the lack of air. Sansa giggled, her kiss-swollen lips pulled back in a grin. 

“How else shall I show gratitude, Father?” 

His eyes narrowed, mouth twisting in a wry half-smile. Little minx was teasing! Christ above, had he already taught her so well? Or was this sultry firebrand always just below the seemingly placid surface? Delectable either way, for he'd been the one to bring it to light.

He met her eyes squarely. “Undress.” 

She grasped at her dress, tugging the shapeless thing upward. 

He tutted to give her pause. “Not like that. Reveal yourself to me slowly.”

She gave him an odd look but released the fabric. Petyr settled back upon the bed, fixing her with an appraising gaze. Sansa jutted her chin, always game for a challenge, it would seem. She licked her lips and reached again -gingerly this time- for her hem. She slid it up the length of one leg stopping just before it would reveal her sex. He swallowed hard as he noted she'd forgone her undergarments. Her eyes sought his for approval. 

He cupped his growing hardness and nodded. “Very nice, Sweetling. Keep going.”

She dropped the hem once more, seeming momentarily at a loss. His eyes fell to her breasts, the peaks quite visible beneath the thin garment. She followed his gaze and the corner of her mouth lifted. Slowly, she brought one hand to the opening of her nightgown, plucking at the laces, toying with them. She let the loosened fabric fall halfway down one shoulder, her hand gliding across her own collarbones to the other. One finger slid under the other shoulder, pushing it slowly down. The neck of her gown crept down her chest, the skin flushing beneath it. 

By the time her breasts were fully exposed, Petyr was aching. “Enough,” he rasped. “You may discard the gown. You'll not need it again, tonight. Join me on the bed, Sweet.”

Sansa obeyed with gusto, chucking aside the nightdress and scrambling on hands and knees to lay beside him. He kissed her forcefully, rolling her over onto her back, his hand running from her ribs to her hip and up again, feeling her arch against him.  

“Shall I undress you, Petyr?” she breathed, plucking at the collar of his nightshirt. 

Petyr stilled her hands, his chest tightening. Sansa knew nothing of the deformity that marred his chest nor the reason for its existence. For now, it was not a conversation he wished to have. 

“Not just yet. Allow me to tend you, first.”

Sansa hesitated a moment longer but he distracted her by trailing open mouthed kisses the length of her neck. One hand fondled her breast, enjoying the perk of her tightened nipple against his palm. Sansa sighed happily when his lips replaced his hand, suckling and teasing each breast in turn with his tongue. All thoughts of disrobing him seemed forgotten for the moment

As his mouth lavished her tender breasts, his hand slid down between her parted thighs. She was hot and liquid, pliant to the touch, her legs spreading further, hips shunting at even the barest brush of fingertips to her little nub. He smirked against her skin, happy to comply with her unspoken request. 

_ More _ . 

Licking, kissing, and nibbling a path down her body, he moved backwards to settle at the apex of her legs. Sansa was breathing hard, releasing little hums and sighs as he explored her. Her ribs and hip bones were very sensitive, her bellybutton ticklish. His mouth moved lower still, nuzzling her inner thigh, the muscle there tensing and releasing. With deliberate slowness, he worked his way inward, feeling her open up to him, blossom under his roving mouth. 

She inhaled sharply as he breathed across her sex, savoring the unmistakable slick scent of need. Desire. 

Curious, he ventured a glance at her face. Her mouth was slack and eyes gone dark and hungry. Watching him intently. Oh yes, it was just as he'd pictured so often, her body bending to his will, her taste so rich to his palate, her remaining innocence his for the taking. He lowered his head, propping her thighs on his shoulders as his chest pressed into the mattress. 

He swiped his tongue the full length of her dripping slit and her thighs shook. A whimper escaped her next, as he slowly circled her hooded bud. At a glance he could see her hands grasping at the sheets beside her as her hips bucked toward his face. He smoothed a hand up her stomach to hold her in place as his mouth continued to tend her heated flesh. He cataloged every sound, every gasp, every little shift and moan. The way her toes and fingers clenched and unclenched as he brought her toward her rapture. One of her hands left the sheet to bury in his short hair as his tongue drove inside her, an unformed word on her lips that might have been his name. He groaned, his own hips grinding against the mattress as her pleasure coated his face. 

Barely giving her a moment to breath, he slipped a finger between her folds, curving it to hit that spot he knew would make her thrash and cry out. A second finger joined it easily this time, both pumping in rhythm. He returned his lips to her sensitive little bud, teasing and sucking. Sansa was practically weeping, babbling half-uttered prayers and broken words, her body undulating against his mouth and hand. She broke once more, inner muscles clamping down on those thrusting digits, milking them hard. 

Face shining with  _ her _ , Petyr crawled up the length of her panting, trembling body, propping himself on an elbow and settling his hips in the cradle of her thighs. Instinctively, her legs wrapped around him and he wished he had removed his own clothing after all, to feel the press of her core against his cock without any barrier. As it was, she was soaking the front of his nightclothes. A mad laugh nearly bubbled up inside him as he realized he’d have to send the laundry out, now. 

Without being reminded of her promise, Sansa brought her lips to his, kissing him fiercely. His hips rolled mindlessly against her, feeling her slickness through the cloth. It was a base mimicry of the act he truly longed for, but similar enough that it drove him to distraction. Half-frenzied with the most primal of urges, he rutted against her, shamelessly, his head coming to her shoulder. Her hands grasped at his clothing, his face, his hair, as though unsure where they should settle. He was so hard, painfully close to his own climax, that all it took was an unconsciously inviting tilt of her hips, the tightening of her thighs on either side of him, and he was spilling himself between them.

Sansa made a noise of surprise but it was not an unpleasant one. She wrapped both arms around him, kissing his jaw and hairline with a soft hum of approval. Sweat-soaked and suddenly exhausted, he found himself drifting away in her arms. 

He dreamt of a little cabin by the sea, remote and picturesque. A fire crackled merrily in the hearth as he sunk into an oversized chair. A soft, pleasant hum permeated the room - some song he knew once but could name no longer. 

At the corner of his eye, a flicker of brilliant, gleaming auburn curls. He turned but she had moved away. He rose from the chair, hands outstretched, feeling blind despite the brightness of the room. He realized he was blindfolded and oh yes, he could remember this game, now. He was meant to stumble after them, calling out and awaiting their giggling replies. 

He always cheated, slipping up one side of the silk they used to blind him, to make sure he caught the right sister. His reward was a kiss. Only that. But it was enough, then, to make the foolish effort seem worthwhile. 

A slim, pale shoulder glided past him and the game was afoot. He called out a silly phrase but there was no reply, only the echo of that tune he'd forgotten. He called again but the very air around him seemed to thicken, to stifle his voice. The humming faded away. It was hot and he was tired, far too tired for these games. Sweat slipped from his forehead into the silk over his eyes. He ripped it off with a huff of frustration. The fire spat and flared, flames licking out, as though reaching for him. He jumped back, heart racing. The room was suddenly ablaze far too quickly, blocking him in on all sides. He knew he must call for help, but the only words his lips could form were that childish refrain…

Petyr jolted awake, choking on the fear still clouding his mind. He inhaled deeply, reaching out to Sansa, needing her warmth to steady him. But the bed beside him was cold.

She was gone. 


	10. Uncomfortable truths

Sansa did not come to services that morning. Nor was she present at midday meal. Petyr felt driven to distraction, his head turning at a phantom glimpse of red hair, his ear catching a voice so similar to hers but missing a certain dulcet tone. Yet by the last bell, there'd still been no sign of her outside his own fancies. The next day proved to be the same. 

Petyr invented a reason to stop by the sewing room and was informed that Sansa was ill and taken to her bed. Having no excuse for being seen in the nunnery, he was left with no choice but to wait. That night found him agitated, pacing before his fireplace, hands balled into fists at his sides. Feeling her absence deep within him like a physical ache. 

Sleep had been elusive, scattered and restless. His gut clenched and rolled, his mind still stumbling over images of Tully curls and licking flames. Real and unreal. Past and present. The illusory smell of smoke still singed his nostrils. He knew, somehow  _ knew _ , that Sansa’s absence was what made the nightmare linger so. If he could just touch her, wrap her slender form in his arms and feel her heartbeat against his… it would all melt away. 

He ought to be angry with her for leaving him so wretchedly alone, but surely she did not know. Surely kind-hearted Sansa would never abandon a man in so sorry a state. If she had any idea of his suffering, she would be at his side immediately, soothing him and holding him to her breast. His fallen angel. All his and no one else’s. 

And was he hers, as well? 

Petyr swore aloud, shaking his head and running a hand through his hair. Ridiculous. Losing his head over some slip of a girl, barely even a woman. No matter how he desired her, she was only flesh and blood and bone. She was not ethereal or eternal and he would lose her one day, as surely as he too would cease this mortal realm. 

Perhaps she had woken in the night and seen him with her mother’s eyes. Whatever it was that Catelyn Tully found lacking, then. Despite all he had become, all he had accomplished and the wealth and stature he had accrued, some part of Petyr Baelish was still that little boy. The boy Catelyn could not see as a man and therefore could not love. 

Some hideous instinct may have surged in Sansa, lifting the fog of carnality and allowing her to see him truly. The very thought of it made his heart stop. 

It beat again just as there came a soft knock to his door. 

Fighting the urge to fling it open - for it could only be one person at this late hour - he breathed deeply, composing himself, before unlatching it a crack. 

Christ, but she was exceptionally beautiful in moonlight. 

Sansa shifted from foot to foot, a shawl wrapped around her nightgown, her arms folded inward within its depths. “Father.” 

He frowned at her return to formality. Surely no ecumenical titles could still stand between them. “I was told you were ill.” 

She lowered her gaze in reply and the lie was confirmed. They stood at the door, the silence stretching between them. She shivered, pulling tighter at the shawl. Petyr grit his teeth against offering her hospitality until she offered him an explanation.

“I… I needed to think,” she said, at last. 

His lip curled. Thinking was the last thing he needed from his clever little darling. He needed her to feel and react, to want and need and yearn. Thinking would only undo everything. “Lying is a sin, you know,” he baited her. 

She looked up, then, lips pressed thin and head tilted. “Are you certain? You seem a bit rusty on what qualifies as sin, these days, Father.” 

Petyr's mouth twitched at the nearly playful bite in her voice, baiting him back. If he could still provoke her, it meant he could still affect her. And whatever else ailed her, she was still enjoying it. 

He opened the door and stood back. She entered without another word and turned to face him as he locked them into the room. Even lovelier in candlelight than by the moon’s glow. The light danced across her pale skin, her burnished copper locks flecked with tiny hints of gold. His hunger for her roared beneath his skin, igniting in his low belly and spreading through his limbs. He longed to mold his body to hers, to strip her bare and let his tongue chase the light across every inch of her skin. He wanted her so badly, perhaps he could even forgive her for deserting him, for hiding from him. Or at least mete out a pleasurable punishment for her lapse… 

“You called me Cat,” she said flatly, cleaving through his reverie. 

“What?” He blinked at her, his sleep-deprived, lust addled mind sluggish in giving the words their full meaning and weight. Surely he hadn’t been so foolish… 

“You were tossing and turning. I reached for you, to calm you. I kissed you. You opened your eyes and stroked my hair.” Sansa licked her lips, crossing and recrossing her arms. “And you called me _Cat_.”

Petyr said nothing, feeling wholly unprepared for this particular turn of events, for the icy gaze that pinned him. He had always had a lie at the ready, were she to ask about his association with her mother, yet his lips would not form it. Some part of him wanted her to know the truth of it. Of the scars he bore both upon his flesh and buried deep within. She would be the first woman to whom he’d ever revealed either. 

“My mother’s name,” Sansa added, needlessly. 

Petyr pressed his lips tight together, still uncertain which path he ought to take. 

“What was she to you?” Sansa pressed, her voice higher and thinner, very near to breaking. “That a kiss in the night brought her to your mind? Why her?” 

_ Why her and not me _ . The unspoken words lay between them like a gauntlet. 

Petyr inhaled heavily, feeling the press of fine linen against the secret he wore under a neat line of buttons. It was that tremor in her voice that decided him. He could lie and lie well, but only the truth would satisfy her, now. And perhaps it was no more than she deserved. 

One hand came to his collar and flicked it open, removing the white insert and setting it aside on a nearby table. Then another button, then another. His eyes did not leave hers. 

She watched him warily, her shoulders rising and falling with her breath. The shawl slipped as her grip on it loosened and she did not gather it up again, her mouth going slack as his chest was revealed to her. 

Her eyes went right to it. How could they not? In silence she studied the ugly, jagged length of pink skin, raised and slightly shiny even in this dull light. 

He ground his back teeth, jaw clenched. “This. This is what she means… what she _meant_ to me.” 

Sansa’s gaze rose to his, confusion writ plain, but there was a hint of something else there, too. Something between pity and pain. He looked away. 

“My… my mother did this?”

“Not directly, no. Her fiance. Your uncle Brandon. Or would be, had he lived to see you born.” He fiddled with his sleeves. Keeping the appearance of poverty when one had developed a taste for lovely things was difficult. He contented himself with small touches, like the tiny gold stitching at the edge of each cuff. His fingers found a loose thread on one and plucked at it. 

Sansa moved closer, her shawl dropping away, discarded and forgotten. “Why?” 

“Because I was a foolish boy who had the audacity to love a woman he saw as his by rights.” Petyr’s mouth twisted. “Because I read too many fairy stories as a child and still believed in the triumph of love over all. Even over a bigger, stronger man with several years on me and a nasty temperament.”

“You challenged him,” she whispered. It was not an accusation, merely gentle realization. 

“I did.”

“And you lost.” She stepped closer still, less than an arm’s length away. 

“I did,” he grimaced, the venom of hatred somehow still pulsing in his veins after all these years. 

“But he didn’t kill you.” Sansa raised one hand, tentatively, toward his chest, toward his shame. 

He stilled her hand, finally chancing a look at her face. “He tried.” 

Her expression was soft, her voice softer still. “So, you were stronger than he thought, after all.” 

Petyr’s mouth fell open at the tender assertion but he could not bring himself to speak again. 

The corner of Sansa’s mouth quirked upward without a hint of mocking. “I loved fairy stories once, too,” she confided, the hand he held dropping away as she took a final step. They were nearly toe to toe, her breath fanning across his face. Her eyes roved over him and he swallowed hard as that sweet ache began to return. His gaze settled on her mouth practically of its own volition. Her tongue slipped out to wet her petal pink lips and he leaned in to capture them. 

She ducked her head, past his waiting mouth, and planted a kiss just at the top of his scar. He inhaled sharply, the sensation both too much and not enough all at once. 

Her hands came to his waist, parting the fabric further, and her head moved lower. Another press of her lips to the marred flesh and his eyes slipped closed, breath coming short. Sansa moved down the length of his chest slowly, her lips and the tip of her tongue made a study of that long line, not skipping an inch. He gasped lightly when she nipped at the skin of his belly, pleasuring thrumming through him. When he dared to open his eyes again, she was kneeling at his feet, his cock springing toward her, unabashedly eager. 

She eyed his hard length and then returned her eyes to his face, her expression contemplative. “Do you still love her?” 

Petyr’s brow rose. “Your… Cat, you mean?”  

Sansa nodded. 

_ Yes. Probably always will. It means nothing now. _

His throat tightened, unwilling to part with that final secret, not when he'd already bared so much of himself. 

Sansa’s hand wrapped around him. 

“Sansa…” he hissed. 

“Do you wish she was the woman in your bed?” She changed tactics, stroking him oh so slowly, her thumb swiping over the sensitive head. 

He bit back a swear and shook his head. “Sansa, don’t….” he groaned as she tightened her grip just enough to make him buck his hips. 

“Do you?” Sansa prodded, swiveling at the wrist and stroking him hard from root to tip. 

“No,” he choked out, hoarsely. “Only you, I swear. It was just a dream, that’s all. When my eyes opened, I must not have seen you, but my dream.”

She released his cock and stood, a breath away from his lips. “Then what do you want?” 

He gripped her shoulder, feeling half mad and reckless with want. “You, Sansa, you are what I want. The past is in the past. It’s only you. You. Here and now.” The words poured out with stirring conviction, dangerously uncalculated. Inwardly, he chided himself to gather up his wits, lest he unravel completely. If Sansa was to be his, he must still maintain some sense of dignity. He must be the strong hand to guide her, not a lovestruck boy dogging her footsteps. God above, what had this girl done to him, already? 

“Then I’ll stay,”she breathed and he was flooded with such intense relief his knees nearly buckled.  

He felt her smile as he kissed her. 


End file.
